


fashion and flames

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bickering, Canon Era, Established Relationship, Horrible Fashion Sense, M/M, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: “Oh dear,” Jehan says, clinging to Bahorel’s arm and hissing at the garment in the wardrobe. “What in the world is that?”“It’s my new waistcoat,” Bahorel says.
Relationships: Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	fashion and flames

**Author's Note:**

> For Poetry Smash Week 2020!

“Oh dear,” Jehan says, clinging to Bahorel’s arm and hissing at the garment in the wardrobe. “What in the world is _that_?”

“It’s my new waistcoat,” Bahorel says. “It’s not poisonous.”

“Venomous, perhaps,” Jehan says, prodding the thing shakily with his cane. After every poke, he jerks his hand back, as if the waistcoat will leap out and strike him. Bahorel does not put it past his waistcoat. “It’s horrid. Why did you even let this thing into my home? Take it back. Burn it. It’s a crime against nature.”

The way Jehan talks, it’s like he’s not wearing a peach-colored waistcoat with the first few paragraphs of Dante’s Inferno embroidered on the hems and demonic faces printed on the fabric. Bahorel says as much, and Jehan crosses his arms, pointing his nose in the air and attempting to look down his nose at Bahorel. Since the top of his head only comes up to Bahorel’s collarbone, this does not work.

“You know nothing about fashion,” Jehan says, sniffing.

“Is that an insult, monsieur?” Bahorel says. He really hopes it is. He’s been gearing for a fight since this morning.

Jehan considers it. He taps his chin gravely and makes odd noises. “Yes.”

“Then I challenge you to a duel!”

“Accepted, but do we have to do it at this hour in the morning?” Jehan squints at the sunlight pouring in through the window. “Duels should be fought at night, I think. It’s aesthetically appropriate.”

Bahorel frowns. He already has two plates in hand, as his selection of dueling weapons. They would make the most satisfying crash when thrown. “Can I still break these?”

-

After getting chewed out by Jehan’s landlady for making a ruckus, snapping the legs off an end table, and breaking Jehan’s pet skeleton in eighteen places, Bahorel finds himself thrown out on the street, Jehan looking mournfully at him from his window. Knowing Jehan, this is the height of sympathy and understanding.

“I’ll dedicate a poem to you,” Jehan calls from the window. “Cruel fate has separated us forevermore, and henceforth my affection shall be carried to you by moonlight, by the light summer breeze, on the wings of butterflies—”

“—or you could come to my apartment,” Bahorel says.

“Ah, the cruelty of life!”

“You can find me in the theatre, as well. You know I can never resist offending the aristocrats that wander there.”

“Alas, my sorrow,” Jehan says, but he’s smiling now.

Bahorel blows him a kiss and goes on his merry way.


End file.
